


GI Goodnight

by Kennel_Boy



Category: G.I. Joe - All Media Types, G.I. Joe: Retaliation (2013), G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra (2009), The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dubious Science, F/M, M/M, The Government Doesn't Work That Way, The Military Doesn't Work That Way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/pseuds/Kennel_Boy
Summary: Storm Shadow put a target on this back when he betrayed Cobra for the sake of revenge. With nowhere else to turn, he must prove his value to the surviving members of GI Joe. He starts by saving one of their own from an assassination attempt and ends up on an unexpected path.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks, Snake Eyes/Scarlett, Storm Shadow/Goodnight Robicheaux
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27





	GI Goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnd here's the first bit! Many thanks to lazaefair, Poemsingreenink, Fontainebleau, iwritesometimes, little_ogre and everyone else who's been encouraging me to commit this madness to paper. :)
> 
> Also? If you're feeling the need to remind me of military procedure, the actual scope governmental powers, historical accuracy, or scientific accuracy, please read the tags, remind yourself that both parts of this fusion are action movie nonsense, and let it pass.

Was one night's rest worth the possibility of not waking up in the morning?

That was the question on Etienne “Goodnight” Robicheaux’s mind as he stepped beneath the anemic fluorescent lighting of Sadie’s 24/7 Spirits and Liquor. Truth of the matter was, the question had been on his mind for hours: since the restlessness and rootless anxiety had crept up on him the early evening; since he’d turned out the lights in his little Airstream and tried to will himself to sleep; since he’d laid himself down on his narrow mattress, breathing shallow and silent, and stared into the dark with pistol in-hand, listening for the sound of footfalls in the night, or the handle of the trailer door rattling under a stranger’s hand.

He’d already answered the question in the affirmative, of course, and he’d known that the moment he’d unhitched the trailer and climbed into his truck. 

Five months since the President of the United States had gone on live television and announced a kill order on all Joe personnel. In a heartbeat, GI Joe had gone from an unconfirmed rumor to a declared enemy of the nation. 

Five months since Goodnight had stepped away from what scrap of a life he’d had, emptied his bank account, and gone to ground. Pulled up stakes, tossed his phone, and just kept moving. He’d mustered out a while back, but that didn’t tend to matter when governments started purging undesirables. He expected he’d be found sooner or later. Hopefully by friend, more likely by foe. But he’d been prepared to throw in with the old unit if they got to him first, even if that only meant he got to go down fighting. Once a Joe, always a Joe.

No one found him. Reaching out through the old channels got him only silence. It had occurred to Goodnight that maybe there was no one left to find him, that all active Joes and higher profile personnel had already been picked off. Could be it was just a matter of time until they got around to his name at the very bottom of some list.

And then it was over.

The Joes had rallied. The President was exposed as an imposter and usurper, his new special forces unit, Cobra, as a terrorist organization bent on global domination. GI Joe was still in the public eye, there was no walking that back, but at least they were also in very public good graces.

Goodnight had realized no one was coming. He’d vastly overestimated his worth as a potential target and as a potential ally.

He should have tried to go back to his life. Or parked himself somewhere and picked up a new one. Somehow, though, he hadn’t been able to find the focus for it. He’d been expecting to die, one way or another, and he just couldn’t get his mind back around to going on with the business of living, not without an all-clear. He’d risked using personal numbers to get in touch with Bounty Hunter and Scarlett. All to no avail. So he’d drifted. Let his prescriptions lapse. Started leaning harder on the bottle as the haunted nights blended into tense, anxious days. 

Which was how he came to be standing in the whiskey and bourbon aisle at 3AM, staring at a fifth of Ezra Brooks and still putting up just enough of a struggle that he could be disgusted with his self-delusion later. There was a kind of salvation in that bottle, of the sort that would bury him in a sleep so deep, he’d never feel the muzzle of a gun against the back of his head.

“You need to come with me.”

Goodnight didn’t startle at the oh so calm voice over his shoulder, though he could have sworn it had been only him and the fella behind the check-out glass when he’d walked in. He reached for the SIG Sauer under his jacket as he turned. Then he caught sight of the voice’s owner and froze in his tracks.

The man was devastating. All in white, sleek black hair, and golden skin. His dark eyes followed the movement of Goodnight’s hand, fully aware that he was reaching for a weapon and in no way alarmed by the fact. This was a man steady and sharp enough to take Goodnight apart in three bloodless cuts, and Goodnight wanted him to so badly that it took his brain a half-second to catch up to his desire.

At first glance, Goodnight had taken the stranger to be wearing a biker jacket, but it was a close-fitted long coat, with an odd enough flow to the material that he’d have bet his life it was something more than just leather. A pair of swords were strapped to his back, and there was a pistol at his belt, all but camouflaged in a sleek, white side holster. His stance was alert, every line of his body tensed in anticipation of trouble… but somehow, Goodnight didn’t expect it was his presence making this fellow so wary.

All the same, he kept his hand in the vicinity of his sidearm.

“Much as I appreciate the invite, I’m the kind of guy who needs drinks and dinner first, friend.”

The stranger didn’t rise to his banter, but took a step closer.

“There are four men on their way to kill you. If you’d rather live, follow me.”

His attention darted away from Goodnight for a half-instant. Without another word, he lunged forward, catching the front of Goodnight’s Saints jacket.

Being hauled into cover without warning had saved Goodnight’s life more than once, and the stranger had grabbed for cloth instead of something more likely to incapacitate. Goodnight leaned into the momentum instead of fighting, and let his self-proclaimed savior take them both down to the floor. The bottles on the shelves above shattered a heartbeat later, showering them with glass and alcohol. There was a loud pop, then a finer rain of glass from the overheads as the store went dark.

Goodnight had his weapon in hand and feet under him in an instant. He stayed low, heart racing. There was only the security lighting from outside to see by; he couldn’t make out more than vague shapes while his eyes adjusted. The stranger was already on his feet and moving, silent despite the detritus around them, and then vanished into the shadows without a word.

Goodnight kept cover, nerves screaming. He heard a muffled grunt of exertion, the scrape of metal catching metal; he just could make out the white silhouette of the stranger in the dark. He cursed silently, straining his senses for a clear target.

A shadow swept toward him, a soundless shape in the dark, marked only by the gleam of a blade. Instinct kicked in - two shots dead center, one to the head. 

Somewhere in the back of his head, a horrified voice screamed that he hadn’t confirmed the target.

The shape crumpled into a twitching sprawl a bare handspan away from where Goodnight crouched. He kept his weapon trained on the target and put some distance between them, just in case. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Gunfire was still ringing in his ears and memory was trying to drag him back to Rose Creek. He could make out the stranger in white, though. He was standing over a corpse; he had a sword in either hand, but the blades were lowered. That reminder of time and place was enough to anchor Goodnight in the moment.

Goodnight straightened a bit, but kept cover. “Situation?”

“They’re dead.” A pause. “So’s the clerk.”

Goodnight nodded, then hunkered down to examine his target. The scents of blood, excrement, and cordite reached down his throat to turn his stomach inside out, but a closer look at the corpse distracted him from his churning guts.

“What the hell…?”

The man was swathed in red head to toe, with gloves with a full-face mask. The only bared skin was a narrow slot cut out of the mask to allow for vision. A pair of swords nearly identical to those of Goodnight’s supposed savior were strapped to his back; there was a combat knife resting in his slack grip, little more than outline in the dark.

“They’re ninja.” The stranger sheathed his swords, then headed toward Goodnight. He seemed as unruffled as he had when Goodnight had first set eyes on him. “Like I said, we need to leave.”

“Hold it.” Goodnight eased himself standing. Miraculously, his hands were steady, and he trained his pistol on that white-clad chest, easy as breathing. “Neither of us is going anywhere. There’s five dead to account for, and one of those poor souls didn’t have it coming.”

“Stay if you want.” Now that fearless, arrogant gaze was on Goodnight again. “But if you go to the police, you’ll be dead by morning. Cobra was embedded deeper than your people know, and your government started getting sloppy after they’d purged the higher levels.” His blade flashed as he sheathed it. “Cobra is still hunting Joes. They just got subtle about it.”

Goodnight frowned, but dropped his aim. “This was subtle?”

The question earned him a cold smile. “If I hadn’t interfered, you’d have died in a tragic armed robbery. Are you coming or not?”

Goodnight took a last look back at the poor kid sprawled behind the security glass, then holstered his weapon. “All right. Let’s go.”

* * *

Storm Shadow had no illusions about his current situation. For the sake of revenge, he’d betrayed Cobra and chosen a path that would ensure every hand was turned against him. He accepted that; given the choice again, he’d have changed nothing. As for the moment… well, as the saying went, desperate times called for desperate measures, and he could imagine there was little that illustrated that better than his self-appointed mission.

Still, he hadn’t realized just how uncertain the situation was until the supposed Joe he’d rescued pulled the truck over less than a mile into their escape, stumbled out to the shoulder of the road, and brought up his stomach in the glare of the headlights.

It had been three days without sleep, most of that spent keeping ahead of his former students to ensure he reached their target first. Then a three-on-one fight that had taken more out of him than he would ever have admitted aloud. And now, he was stuck on the side of barren stretch of highway, waiting for this worn out old soldier to get off his hands and knees so they could get back to the business of running for their lives. 

If he was still breathing by sunrise, Storm Shadow was going to count himself lucky.

“Do I need to drive?”

The soldier - Robicheaux - spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbed the side of the truck until he was on his feet again.

“I’m good. Get in. We still heading east?”

“Your place,” Storm confirmed, taking his spot on the passenger side again. 

The drive was tense and all but silent, with Robicheaux keeping a white-knuckled grip on the wheel the whole time. Storm wasn’t one for needless talk, but he would have welcomed questions, anything to focus his attention. The light, rhythmic thump of the truck’s tires over the highway blacktop had a lulling effect, and it was becoming ever more difficult to maintain the edge of readiness that had kept him alive all these months.

They turned off the highway and onto a gravel road, then, finally, onto a dirt rut that lead into sparse pine woods. The headlights gleamed off a silver, two-wheeled pillbox of a trailer sitting among the trees. Robicheux backed up to the trailer, then cut the engine. Storm stepped out of the truck; Robicheaux followed.

“Home sweet home.” Robocheaux regarded Storm over the hood of the truck. “You sure we’re not just setting ourselves up for a second hit?”

“It will take a while for Cobra to confirm their failure. That’ll give us enough time.”

“Enough time for what, praytell?”

“Enough time for you to let the Joes know you’ve captured a person of interest.” 

Robicheaux snorted as he lead the way to the door. There was nothing relaxed about his movements, but at least he seemed to have pulled himself together. Marginally.

“Introductions at last.” He opened the door and ushered Storm in with an exaggerated bow. “So who are you?”

The gesture earned Robicheux a suspicious glare, but Storm took a step into the trailer’s darkened interior.

“Storm Shadow.”

It felt good to say out loud. Even stripped of purpose and hunted by his own, even reduced to protecting one worn-out Joe who lost his stomach after repelling a simple ambush, the name reminded him of who he was and what he had survived. No one could take it from him. Not the Arashikage, not Cobra, not death.

The floor creaked faintly as Robicheux followed him. The door shut behind.

“I’m not familiar with that call sign.”

“None of your people were, until recently.” With one exception. But he wasn’t important now.

“‘My people’, huh? Just who are you with?”

“I’m a free agent these days. Before that, I was an enforcer for MARS and Cobra.” 

The trailer’s lights clicked on. Storm Shadow turned. Robicheaux’s expression had gone to stone, but at least he hadn’t bothered with the futile posturing of aiming a gun at his head. 

“You’re going to want to explain yourself now,” Robicheaux said. His arms were folded over his lean chest, his tone icy. “No more of this ‘mysterious man of action’ bullshit. You’re not giving me a lot to go on, friend, and you don’t come with very good references.”

Storm Shadow’s lip curled. The soldier might have gotten himself under control, but he wasn’t thinking clearly yet.

“If I wanted to set a trap for your friends, I wouldn’t need you,” Storm Shadow pointed out, each word slow and condescending. “All I’d have to do is show myself on the right security feed and they would come running. That would have been a lot less trouble than tracking down Red Ninja to save your life.”

A long moment ticked by, each of them taking the other’s measure, waiting to see just how much each was willing to trust by taking the next step.

Finally, Robicheaux moved away from the door, headed toward the trailer’s battered, stainless steel galley. Storm Shadow stepped aside just enough that they didn’t brush against against each other. 

“So if all this is about getting in touch with my old unit, what’s my part in it? I’m supposed to be your peace offering?”

“Proof of good intentions.” Storm Shadow settled himself on one of the built-in shelf benches built into the trailer’s wall, though stillness held no appeal. He wasn’t prone to claustrophobia, but the cramped quarters were even more obvious with the lights on, and the trailer’s high, thin windows showed less of their surroundings than he would have liked. The threat of confinement prickled under his skin.

“And if I don’t feel like being used?”

“I expect you’re desperate to be. Or are you still running because you like it?”

The answer was blunt to the point of idiocy, and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. He’d let his exhaustion get the better of his survival instincts. Robicheaux might owe him, but he didn’t trust him. What was more, he didn’t _need_ him. And even if the rest of Storm Shadow’s plan went well, he couldn’t afford to waste energy picking a fight; he still needed to be able to endure a long interrogation. And if things went badly, there would be more combat and a long-odds escape in his future.

Robicheaux only scoffed. He pulled open the icebox, hunted around briefly, and emerged with a beer.

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” he asked, popping the cap off on the edge of the galley. 

Storm Shadow didn’t bother answering that. He wasn’t sure his pride could take admitting to anything in common with this man any more than it could attempting to deny the obvious. 

“Where’s your radio?”

* * *

The nausea and garrote-wire tension leached away drop by drop as the night ticked by, leaving Goodnight exhausted, but too keyed up to even think of getting any rest while they waited. Not that he’d have been much inclined to relax anyway, what with Mister Intense, Dark, and Murderous sitting close enough to spit at and a whole host of emotions ricocheting around in his head.

Storm Shadow had been on the level, at least so far as having the means to get in touch with the Joes went. And it left him with some hope that some of the old unit might be among the survivors. He didn’t know how many - they’d been in contact only long enough for Goodnight to verify his identity and inform them that a transport was needed for their “person of interest”. But someone had made it through, somehow. Could be things weren’t as bleak as he’d let himself imagine.

And he had someone he could get answers from here and now.

“Hey.”

Storm Shadow looked his way, just a shifting of his eyes in the dim, jaundiced light. The two of them had taken up stations on opposite sides of the trailer: Goodnight sitting at the edge of his bed, Storm at the fold-down kitchen table, back against the wall.

“You know which Joes survived that kill order?”

“Some. I can give you their names.”

Goodnight nodded.

“Sergeant Major Marvin Hinton. Codename: Roadblock. Corporal Dashiell Fairborne. Codename: Flint. Sergeant Major Alison Burnett. Codename: Lady Jaye.” A half-second’s pause, then he continued. “Kimiko Arashikage. Codename: Jinx. No rank. Snake Eyes. Rank: Classified.”

Silence. Goodnight looked to Storm Shadow expectantly, only to get an even, “That’s all of them” in return.

Five names, and he only knew three of them. Five survivors out of more than two hundred Joes. And that wasn’t even taking the supports into account... Jesus Christ. He’d braced himself for that worst case scenario weeks ago, but hearing it confirmed was a kick to the gut.

He forced himself to form words. “You had enough intel to track me down. You get wind of any other former Joes? I can give you codenames. Bounty Hunter? Scarlett? Gambler?”

He liked to think his friends would have told him if they’d left the unit - especially Sam - but shit happened. Sometimes you heard about matters well after the fact. Could be they were still alive and out there somewhere...

Storm shook his head. “The ninja I interrogated only knew about the plan to kill you. If more of your people are out there, I don’t know where.”

“No, I reckon you wouldn’t.” Goodnight tried to focus, though his churning emotions dragged at his attention like quickmud. He needed to keep the man talking, but every time he tried to think of a question, his scattered thoughts left him with a handful of nothing. 

But maybe this Storm Shadow had given him something to work with anyway. 

“You know Snake, then?” Storm Shadow’s eyes narrowed; Goodnight couldn’t help but smirk at the confirmation of his small victory. “You didn’t toss out an ‘unknown’ or a ‘classified’ where his name ought to have been. I guess you know better.” 

Storm didn’t move, but something in his gaze went wary.

“We trained together as children.”

Goodnight hadn’t figured on getting an actual answer to that not-quite-a-question. Despite the fucking insanity of the night, Storm Shadow’s terse response intrigued him. 

Snake Eyes was a legend, even among the combat elite. Voiceless, all but untouchable in combat, and shrouded in mystery, even to those who’d known him going back years. But as intriguing as the prospect of insight into his teammate’s origin was, Snake Eyes rated better. The man was a comrade and, given his closeness to Scarlett, damn near family on top of that. No sir, Goodnight didn’t aim to go prying where he hadn’t been invited on that front.

This fella, on the other hand…

“I'm more interested in your recent past, friend. How did a former Cobra enforcer come to be rescuing Joes?”

Storm Shadow seemed to consider the question.

“What do you know about the last few months?”

“Not much more than the rest of the public, I’d say. The existence of the GI Joe was confirmed on the same day the POTUS ordered us ‘exterminated with extreme prejudice’ by his new kill-squad, Cobra. Then he went on live TV and branded us a pack of traitors and assassins.” Goodnight didn’t even try to hide the bitterness seeping into every word. “Seventy-two hours later, London’s a smoking crater, and two days after that, it turns out our President was an imposter and we’re all friends again. Haven’t heard anything about the Joes since. Most of the news has been clean-up efforts over in the UK and the President invoking emergency powers.”

Storm nodded. “Cobra is more than one man’s private security squad. Before MARS was dismantled, James McCullen used his money and influence to install people in every level of your government, people he thought were loyal to him.” Storm Shadow's contempt was plain. Goodnight couldn’t say he thought much of the merits of bought loyalty, himself. “McCullen was a figurehead by the time the Commander openly usurped him, he just hadn’t realized it. But that was their foot in the door.”

“Shit.” So that’s what Storm had meant earlier, about the purges being sloppy. “Was it just the US?”

Another nod. “Cobra Commander offered the world a choice of capitulation or destruction. Infiltrating a second government would have been redundant once he had his platform.”

“Right. What else?”

“Something that hasn’t been showing up on the news reports -- before Cobra’s satellites razed London, Cobra Commander manipulated the world governments into destroying their nuclear stockpiles. Now they’re scrambling to replace them. Or improve on them.” He flashed Goody a vicious smile, like a knife wound opening just above his chin. “It’s the Wild West out there right now.”

Storm Shadow’s expression sharpened abruptly; his attention went to the door. Goodnight caught the sound a moment later - a low, electric hum vibrating through the floor and walls of the trailer. White light flooded the trailer, accompanied by a windblown scatter of pine needles and detritus gusting by outside. 

Storm Shadow tilted his head toward the window, then stood. “Looks like my ride’s here.”

Goodnight mirrored him. “Better let me go out first. Don’t expect the welcoming committee is going to be feeling all that friendly, what with you being such a fine, upstanding citizen. I can put their minds at ease that this isn’t a hostage situation.”

The offer was met with a half-second’s stare and silence, then a shrug, but Goodnight felt that intense gaze on his back as he opened the door. The light hit him full in the face and left him blinking, but he got his hands up and stepped to meet the young man in fatigues making a beeline toward him.

“Everything’s all right.” Goodnight spared a glance at the incoming chopper; it was only now fully touching down. This fella had been in a hell of a rush. “Your man’s coming out behind me, now.”

The soldier waited until Goodnight had just stepped aside before bulldozing Storm Shadow up against the side of the trailer with enough force that Storm’s head rebounded off the shell. 

Storm Shadow smiled through gritted teeth as the restraints went on.

“Sergeant.”

“Finally out of places to run, huh?” He grabbed a fistful of Storm Shadow’s coat and passed him off to the two men just now catching up to him. A couple of support personnel, aka greenshirts, from the looks of them. “Get him secured. He so much as twitches, you put him down hard.”

Goodnight frowned at the treatment, but didn’t step in. He didn’t particularly like how the young hothead had handled that capture… capture, hell! It had been a surrender. But the bare facts of the situation - that Storm Shadow had been working for the folks that had not so long ago been tasked with wiping out the Joes - meant he wasn’t going to step in over a little rough handling. No matter the time that had passed, his old unit merited more trust than that.

Hothead turned toward Goody. His expression was still that of a man only just keeping his temper in check, but his hand was extended. 

“Sergeant Dashiell Faireborn. Flint. We appreciate the assist, sir.”

“Doesn’t feel like it was much of an assist.” Goodnight gave the offered hand a quick shake. “He showed up and stayed of his own accord, so far as I know. I just provided the comms.” And the excuse, but he still wasn’t sure how he felt about all that. 

“We’ll figure out what he was up to.” There was a grim promise to Flint’s words. Goodnight found, again, that he didn’t particularly care for the man’s style, but held his peace. “But Captain Hinton would appreciate if you came in for a debriefing, sir. We’d like as much information on the incident as we can get.”

Goodnight smiled despite himself. “‘Captain Hinton’ now, is it?” Roadblock had been a man to inspire confidence, even when he’d been fresh to their unit. To know that he’d attained the rank to go with it was heartening, more of what Goodnight should have felt learning there were Joes still alive. And if this was his best chance to find out all what had happened and what was coming next, he was going to take it.

“All right, then, Sergeant. Let’s get moving before we attract too much attention.” 

The air transport was new to his experience, a beauty of a machine that echoed an assault chopper in size and outline, but was a far sleeker piece of work. Its rotors stirred up as much wind as usual, but all that emanated from the engine itself was deep hum, more felt than heard.

Storm Shadow had already been fastened in when Goody came aboard, his leg restraints affixed to the harness clip bolted into the floor for good measure. Two greenshirts were seated across from him, watching his every move. One of them, a kid who looked just out of basic, had his sidearm trained on him, despite Storm being belted and restrained. And Storm was watching them right back, one eyebrow cocked, openly daring them to start anything. 

Goodnight bit down on a grin. As much as he was trying to stay wary of this son-of-a-bitch, it was easier said than done.

Goodnight slid into place beside Storm and got into his monkey harness. 

“Sir.” The youngster with the drawn weapon drawn piped up. “I’d recommend you sit somewhere else.”

“Son,” Goodnight replied, “this man’s had all night to kill me if he had a mind to, and you’re making me a sight more nervous than he is right how. Why don’t you put that away until it’s needed?”

The young man looked to Flint for confirmation. He got a curt nod in response and lowered his weapon. 

Goodnight glanced over at Storm Shadow.

“Seems like you’ve got a reputation,” he drawled. 

Storm shrugged (not that he could do much else at the moment).

“I don’t come with good references.”

Goodnight snorted, but couldn’t hide the laugh behind it. Even if all this amounted to nothing more than a field trip, for now, at least he wasn’t stuck on the outside, waiting for the worst to happen.


End file.
